


The Secret of My Own Soul

by literaryspell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:24:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryspell/pseuds/literaryspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time should change everything. It should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret of My Own Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the awesome Creature Fest at [](http://hp-creatures.livejournal.com/profile)[**hp_creatures**](http://hp-creatures.livejournal.com/). The fic I began to write for this fest had me defeated to the point where I had to drop out. But then I was struck by this and I'm so glad I was still able to participate, because I absolutely loved writing this. (It's a style I'm actually really enjoying and I hope I don't begin to abuse it because it is SO much fun.)
> 
> Huge thanks to [](http://secretsalex.livejournal.com/profile)[**secretsalex**](http://secretsalex.livejournal.com/) , [](http://pandafoot105.livejournal.com/profile)[**pandafoot105**](http://pandafoot105.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://lokifan.livejournal.com/profile)[**lokifan**](http://lokifan.livejournal.com/) for the beta work! You guys were such a fantastic support to me.
> 
> This is inspired by Oscar Wilde's _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , and the title is a quote from same.

 

**now.**  
“What do you think of these robes?”

Harry glanced over at Draco. He stood in front of the ornate oval mirror, tilting it on its stand and staring at himself with dissatisfaction.

“I like them,” Harry said, agreeable. “Are they new?”

“Well, have you seen them before?”

Harry actually thought about it. He knew he wasn’t meant to; knew it was a rhetorical question meant to showcase how foolish Harry was and how unnecessary his input. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Then they’re new.” Draco turned around, looking back over his shoulder. He straightened, the line of his body long and proud. Harry wondered if the line of his own body was slouched and tired. That was how he felt.

“They look great, Draco.” Harry meant it. Draco was gorgeous.

“Hm.” Draco gave himself one last critical look before smiling and turned to Harry. “You look good, too. Almost good enough to be seen with me.”

Harry rolled his eyes. He knew Draco was joking, and that his little quips were attempts to calm his own embittered ego. The truth was, no matter how good, how young, how perfect Draco looked, no one wanted to see them together. Harry didn’t care; Draco couldn’t not.

It wasn’t even a date night. It wasn’t an anything night. It was just dinner, between them, in their own home.

“Come on, I’m starving.” Harry rose from the armchair and went to Draco, taking his hand and leading him out of the room. Draco let him, which could only mean Draco himself was quite hungry.

The takeaway had been under stasis since Harry had returned from work. Draco had insisted he needed to get ready, and Harry had followed because he missed Draco during the day. But he was glad to be out of the room, Draco’s dressing room. He hated that room; he could hear things there, things that hurt him.

They ate the Italian food in silence. Draco had two slices of garlic bread but only a little of his carbonara. He couldn’t gain or lose a pound if he tried, but staying away from pasta was a habit older than time.

“How was work?” Draco asked.

Harry sometimes got the impression that Draco didn’t know what to talk about. Like they lived in two such different worlds that Harry couldn’t possibly understand anything Draco could offer, and Draco didn’t really understand Harry at the same time.

“Work was good. We finally closed the Moore case. It was an accident. Muggle wiring in a faulty no-magic zone.”

“Idiots,” Draco said, shaking his head. He sipped his wine, his eyes meeting Harry’s.

Harry said nothing. There was so much to Draco that he just didn’t get. Was Draco really that callous, that uncompassionate, that he couldn’t find it in himself to care about people, a family, who’d died? Or was he trying to get a rise out of Harry, something he’d been able to do at the drop of a wand in the early days but hardly at all anymore?

They finished the wine in near silence. Then Harry looked up, about to tell Draco he thought he might make it an early night, and saw that Draco had a tiny bit of cream sauce on the corner of his lips. Just the smallest amount, but it was enough to make Draco human again for a moment. Harry smiled. “I love you,” he said, sure of it but also afraid of it.

Draco smiled too, a small, uncertain smile.

“You have a bit of sauce on your lip, just there.” Harry indicated on himself where it was, but Draco didn’t see. He’d shot to his feet and disappeared into his dressing room without saying a word.

Harry sighed and poured himself another glass of wine. Draco. No one could hurt him like Draco.

 

**before.**  
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Harry said to Draco, stunned. Years had passed since they’d seen each other. They’d had a brief fling when they’d been just out of Hogwarts—just after Harry and Ginny had broken up—a month of the worst fights and best sex of his life. Draco had hit him like a tidal wave, catching him up and exhilarating him, but drowning him all the same.

Draco shrugged. “I come here.”

Harry hadn’t been back to the Three Broomsticks since he’d fucked Draco in the loo: the last time they’d been together, the last time they’d seen each other. “You look good,” he said, only noticing as he spoke how very true it was. It had been six years.

And Draco hadn’t aged a day.

“Good genes,” Draco said with a private smile. “You look good too, Potter. Want to visit the loo? I could use a good… piss.”

Harry chuckled, won as always by Draco’s rare crass seduction. “That sounds like one of the worst ideas you’ve ever had.”

A darkness touched Draco’s face, quick and fleeting. But Harry had seen it.

“I only came to pick up an order,” Harry offered, hoping to ease whatever had pained Draco. Even after all the years it’d been, it hurt Harry to see Draco anything but happy.

“I only came to get sloshed.”

Harry nodded. He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t stop staring at Draco. Draco who looked eighteen still, taking Harry back to the first time, the rawness of it fresh again.

“What did you do, Draco? Where did you go?” Harry wanted to be angry. He wanted to hate Draco for leaving him when he’d needed him, when he’d _loved_ him. When he’d been afraid to be alone and so happy to find someone who wanted to be with him despite himself.

“I did this,” Draco said. He waved a hand up and down his body.

Harry noticed for the first time that Draco was already drunk. He didn’t know what he meant.

(He did now.)

 

**now**  
“It was just a little sauce,” Harry said, standing in the doorway. He wasn’t going back in there. He didn’t miss Draco that much, not when it wasn’t even the Draco he’d been so desperate to get back, to hold on to.

“Fuck off, Potter.” Draco finished washing his face and approached Harry. “I’m sorry,” he said.

He looked contrite but Draco had looks that were real and looks that were affected. He was a brilliant actor and Harry was a terrible audience.

“You can’t let it control you,” Harry said, his voice low. He was begging Draco.

Draco was quiet. He stepped closer, closer, until his body was against Harry’s. He rested his head on Harry’s shoulder. Just that, no arms wrapped around, no burrowing of his face into Harry’s neck. It was Draco’s surrender, his true apology, his love. Harry was desperate to grab him tight, to bring them so close together that Draco would be part of him, to hold him and sob and demand that things go back, that Draco undo his unforgivable deed and give them a _chance_.

But he just put his hand on the back of Draco’s neck and kissed the side of his head. _I love you,_ he said in his mind. _I love you even though you’re rotting, even though you’re wrong, even though you ruined everything._

 

**the last time.**  
“Harder, Potter, I’m not going to break,” Draco said, panting. He was braced against the loo wall. The door was loosely fitted and they could hear the Three Broomsticks patrons seated closest to the loo, but they didn’t care.

Harry steadied his stance and pounded Draco’s arse, hard enough to hurt them both. “Fuck you,” he said with his thrusts. _I want to break you._

Maybe Draco wanted to break, wanted Harry to break him. Harry hated the way he thought about things when he was fucking Draco. He wished his mind could go blank like it had with Ginny. Then it was only pleasure, simple and honest. With Draco everything was twisted, everything was off. Yet, there had never been anything so right and so beautiful.

Harry held Draco’s hips—let him wank himself, that wasn’t Harry’s job—and slammed in. Draco’s tightness constricted him, almost hurt him. Draco would love to know that, but Harry would never say. The lube was wearing thin and Draco had to be in pain. No matter how Harry angled, he couldn’t seem to get Draco’s prostate properly, and he stopped caring.

“Fuck, fuck, I love you, I want this, you forever.” Harry spoke without thinking, without filter. They were young but could make it work, somehow. He was optimistic, passionate, naïve.

Draco came, weakening and beginning to slump, but Harry held him and finished the way he wanted to, more gently, more like making love. When he came, he wanted to bite Draco but he didn’t. It would scare Draco, the depth of Harry’s need for him.

“Out,” Draco groaned, slapping Harry’s thigh.

Harry laughed and pulled away, spelling them both clean and pulling up his pants and trousers, watching with some regret as Draco let his robes fall back over his arse to the floor.

“I have to go,” Draco said.

“Stay,” Harry said. He didn’t mean stay in the loo, because Draco didn’t mean he was leaving just the loo.

“There’s something I have to do. Something that will fix everything.”

“What’s broken? What’s wrong?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

It was probably true, Harry knew. He didn’t understand Draco. Not at all. “Will you come back to… this?” This meaning him, meaning them.

Draco nodded. Only a nod. But Harry took it as a promise. He left first.

 

**before.**  
They’d taken the Floo from the Three Broomsticks to Draco’s flat. It was sparse but elegant, feeling a little like he’d just moved in. Draco stumbled and landed on the couch, laughing at himself.

“I’ve never seen you drunk before,” Harry said.

“I’m not drunk,” Draco protested, but it was token.

“Why did you leave me, Draco?” He sat on the couch as well, nervous as the first time they’d fucked. Did he really want an answer? Could he bear the truth?

“I had to get better,” Draco said with a sigh.

“But you were perfect.”

Draco laughed, the sound ugly and forced. “No such thing.”

“Draco, please. You owe me the truth.”

Draco stood, wobbling a little. He threw his hands up and walked to a cabinet, slamming the door open and breaking one of the patterned glass panes. Without even seeming to notice the damage, Draco grabbed a short glass and filled it with brandy. He thrust it in Harry’s direction, the liquor sloshing a little over the side. Harry shook his head—he needed to be clear and focused. Draco shrugged and downed the drink before refilling it.

“The truth,” Draco said finally. “What does that even mean?”

“Just tell me why we couldn’t be together then.”

“Because I hated myself.”

The basic precision of the words took them both by surprise. It seemed to open something in Draco, and words dribbled their way out like water from a leaking tap. Harry could barely keep up and hardly understood half.

“People say things, things they don’t really mean. Things they don’t remember later. They always forget. But other people, they, you know, hold on to those words. Those words that burned them so badly, that hurt so much and changed everything. So even when, later, that person says something different, it doesn’t mean anything because those first words are still there, the foundation, and everything on top of it means nothing if the foundation is… is rotten.”

Draco fell silent.

Harry sat back, his mind struggling to work his way through the riddle. Before, when Harry’d told Draco he’d loved him. Those must be the words Draco meant. And now, now that Harry wanted him back, it didn’t mean anything because…

It didn’t make any sense.

“Draco, I—”

“Come and look at this.”

Harry followed Draco into a bedroom. He looked in the closet. He saw the painting, the way Draco was supposed to look, six years older, aged, human. Handsome.

Harry choked on whatever words he wanted to say.

“What, don’t you recognize me?” Draco asked. Whether he meant the real him or the painting that showed how he was _supposed_ to look, Harry didn’t know.

“What have you done…”

“I’m sorry,” Draco said. He shut the doors but the evil of the thing, the wrongness, tainted everything.

“I have to go,” Harry said, feeling like he was going to be sick.

(I love you but I can’t.)

It was four more years—for Harry but not really for Draco—until they saw each other again. (I love you and I have to try.)

**the beginning.**  
“You know what, Malfoy? I don’t give a shit what you say.” Harry’s hand clenched Ginny’s, but she didn’t react. “At least I have someone who loves me. Who loves you? Who would? You’re ugly on the inside, and you know it. It won’t be long before you’re ugly on the outside, too.”

Harry walked away. He hoped it would be the last time he ever saw Malfoy. 


End file.
